


At the End the Heart Divines

by whyyesitscar



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 12:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: AU. After the collapse of the United States, the Western world is left in ruins. A lone vigilante seeks to destroy the totalitarian government, but will a chance meeting with Emily Fitch change her plans?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, it's a V for Vendetta AU.

It started with a spark.

Someone lit the match that ignited the bomb that blew up the Safe Horizon center in New York—some fundamentalist group offended by a woman's right to control her life. The police had no concrete leads on the assailants; victims and their families were being denied justice. Police apathy turned sour, melting into avoidance and deliberate ignorance. Local politicians began campaigning for change. There were swarms of angry letters, sit-ins and peaceful protests, marches—women flooded Columbus Circle and blocked traffic for two days. On the third day, a rookie cop fired his gun and killed a fifteen-year-old girl.

By the time the federal government intervened, it was almost too late. The issue polarized Republicans and Democrats; eventually, even the Democratic Party dissolved from the inside, divided into members who spoke out vehemently and those who were too craven to open their mouths. Congress went crazy drafting bills and legislations. Violence erupted across the country that could not be quashed by police forces. The National Guard stepped in to do damage control, but it had progressed too much. With the assassination of Hilary Clinton in 2020, the United States crumbled.

It started with a spark, and chaos came tumbling after.

The destruction of a country once so powerful had ramifications all around the globe. Fear spread like wildfire, infecting civilians and politicians alike. Unrest came to England as government officials debated whether or not to get involved. Extremist groups cropped up, all with strategies and solutions to varying degrees of brutality. The most voracious of them all was a band of right-wing zealots that called themselves The Republic. The problem, they asserted, was the amount of voices allowed a forum in America. There was no discipline, they said, no final voice of authority that put a stop to things that were simply _wrong_. Too many people were allowed opinions who shouldn't be. They preached more stringent restrictions on voting and other civil matters. Under the most attack were the women, who, they urged, had always been the weaker sex—the more relenting sex, the more forgiving sex…the more misguided sex. Women's influence was seeping into government and tainting it, stripping it of authority and meaning.

Before the St. Michael's virus, no one would have predicted the success of The Republic. But the girls' grammar school was the host of an outbreak of deadly proportions, killing well over 100,000 people. Justice, The Republic declared, had been delivered with a swift and righteous hand.

Their leader, a zealot by the name of James Cook, slimed his way into power, appointing himself High Chancellor within the year. His first act was to adopt an isolationist policy, condemning ties with any nation whose ideals did not conform to the virtues of The Republic. Trade was cut off, transportation halted; the economy suffered a devastating crash. All the while, women were being thrown into detention centers. They were the source of all the problems—selfish, demanding, sullied women. For order to come back to the country, women must be educated on the proper decorum.

Order returned under the guise of fear, and women didn't move without asking a man first. They were under strict curfew, banned from leaving their houses after ten in the evening. A dress code was enforced, requiring all women to wear drab shirts and ankle-length skirts. No woman under the age of 45 was allowed to walk in public without a man.

Big Ben's hour hand clicked to 11:00 on July 1st, a cool night in London. The streets were slick with rain; streetlights flickered against the shadowy expanse of sky. In the darkness, a black figure waited, lit only by the glow of her cigarette.

She wore black from head to toe—a tight-fitting shirt slid into pants that ran into heavy boots. Gloves adorned her hands and a slim black trench coat covered any remaining bit of skin. Her blond hair that never grew past her ears was pulled into a small bun, hidden from view by a flamboyant mask. It was a detailed depiction of a geisha, colorful and elegant, embellished with pure whites and bright pinks, flashes of orange that swooped up the temples. A wig adorned her head, obscuring her ears under a mass of black.

She lifted her mask to take one last, long drag of her cigarette. The tip blazed orange and hot, and she took her time expelling the smoke. She checked her watch, noting the time—she was late. With a final deep breath, she pushed her mask back down, a soldier of the night preparing for battle. She let the cigarette fall to the ground, watching as the embers flickered against the pavement.

It started with a spark.


	2. Chapter 2

"… _A yellow coded curfew is now in effect. Any unauthorized personnel will be subject to arrest. This is for your protection. A yellow coded curfew is now in effect. Any unauthorized personnel will be subject to arrest. This is for your protection…"_

It was dark outside, just the way she liked it. She slunk into the night like a chameleon, slipping in and out of shadows. She wasn't invisible—you just couldn't see her. Her heels clicked on stone, determined steps echoing their intent to anyone who might be listening. (No one was). Her boots ground pebbles into the street; they slid against the hint of puddles, the slick aftershock of rain.

She was taking the long way around because she had planned for it. Everything had to be calculated down to the second, for there was nothing worse than an ill-timed explosion. (It was the poetry of it, you see. The difference between syncopated and disjointed lay in just the tiniest of moments). Her pants were tailored to make the perfect swish, her coat to cut an imposing figure. Everything had to be a plan, because even if she didn't know anything else, she could always fall back on her plan.

Down a side street to her right was something for which she had not planned. She should have—she _could_ have—avoided it. But that was part of the package deal, right? You start on a path to save society as a whole and you just might have to save actual people.

She stopped against a wall, pushing her shoulder into the brick. She could feel remnants of water seeping into her shirt. She kept her head down and stayed in the dark, listening for something.

"I made a mistake," a woman's voice quavered. "I shouldn't be out after curfew. I know that."

"Maybe you could look after us before getting back to your uncle." The man was slimy, jeering unapologetically at the woman. She could practically see his dirty fingernails and wet lips. It was almost enough to make her move. "See, my friend, he's kind of sick. Ain't you?"

"Real sick. Bad case of the blues. You can feel them." The second man was worse—his voice came low and dangerous; she imagined his black, beady eyes. They would be unforgiving, relentless, and—unless something was different this time—unstoppable.

"Don't touch me!" the woman spat.

And there it was. Something different—a spark.

The woman's voice was raspy; it could be warm on a lazy Sunday under the covers or it could be dangerous, ferocious. The force with which it expelled the words knocked her mind back. It was the sudden flare of a match, the exact moment when kindling transforms from cold wood into a hot blaze. The possibility in the woman's voice set her mind on fire. The flame burst throughout her body, as if her veins were coated in gasoline. It scorched her fingertips, her knees, her ankles.

She tried to pay attention to the escalating scene, but trying to control fire only spread the burning. So she closed her eyes and let it consume her.

(The last time she did that, it changed her life just as much).

/

_It was supposed to be dark; she knew that. And it was, but not because it was night. It was dark because she couldn't see. It was dark because her eyes didn't work._

_Her vision was black, but around her, the sky was on fire. She had felt it from the moment the facility exploded, maybe even a little bit before. She'd set up the bomb strategically. It had been a logical path: good behavior leads to flowers, flowers lead to fertilizer, and fertilizer leads to bombs._

_Fertilizer leads to fire. Fertilizer leads to freedom._

_The fire had been a part of the plan. When she stepped out of her cell—over the wall, really; it was in shambles on the ground—she heard cries of the injured, frantic screams of staff. It was a symphony of liberation—painful, sweet, devastating liberation._

_She could feel the doctor looking at her. The doctor who believed he had done right, who believed his science would change the world. (It did change his life. He had the fear-filled brow to prove it). He looked at her, eyes wide and gleaming against his smooth black skin._

_She looked back at him and screamed until he believed that the burning was a part of the plan, too._

_/_

"Spare the rod, spoil the child," the second man leered.

The woman's terrified screams refocused her mind. "Help me! Someone help!"

She stepped to the side, revealing her hiding place to anyone who was looking. (No one was). "The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him," she spoke softly.

The two men turned to look at her, momentarily distracted. They were in black, much like she was. The similarities stopped there.

"What the hell?" the first one blurted.

"Bugger off!" the second one added.

She slid a knife soundlessly out of her sleeve. "Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution," she continued, oblivious.

The first man held up a badge. "We're True Gents, pal," he all but spat at her.

She smirked behind her mask, waiting just a moment before spitting back. A bite is always worse when you already think you've won. She moved quickly, cutting his badge in half before throwing him against a wall. The second man was quick to attack, brandishing a gun. She batted it away and relieved him of his pants in one swift slice. He fumbled and fell down, leaving room for the first man to take up the fight with renewed energy. She spared herself one smug smile, sparring playfully with him. He had knives too, but he was going to lose. She let him think he was getting close to besting her, and then she went in for the kill. A practiced cut across his abdomen—no flourish, no thought. Just a simple action.

The second man was sniveling on the ground, backing himself into a corner as his face contorted in terror. His pants around his ankles were so absurd she almost wanted to laugh.

"Jesus Christ!" he bleated. Snot dripped from his nose and mingled with the sweat forming at his upper lip. "Mercy!"

She tutted in mock reprimand. "We are oft to blame in this; 'tis too much proved that with devotion's visage and pious action we do sugar o'er the devil himself."

The man furrowed his brows. "What's that mean?" he asked, distracted.

"Spare the rod," she growled. Then she slit his throat. His blood stained her knife and she sighed—that was her favorite one.

She'd almost forgotten about the woman she'd saved until she heard scared, relieved gasps from a corner.

She dropped her knives. "My apologies," she said, spreading her arms wide. "I can assure you, I mean you no harm."

"Who are you?" the woman asked, voice shaking.

"Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a woman in a mask."

The woman somehow managed to stifle an eyeroll. "Oh, I can see that."

But she was not put off by the woman's wariness. She was used to it. Wary she could work with because there was always room for conversion. (If you doubt something, you must also think that it might actually work). "Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation. I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked woman who she is."

"Oh. Right." The woman's eyes were darting around—she was a sheep trapped in a pen, and she wanted out.

(If only she could tell the woman that she planned to open the gates to all the cages in England).

"But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis personae." She flourished her cloak with a laugh. "For your examination, a quixotic exile dexterously placed betwixt excellence and excrement by the flexible maxims of fate. This pretext, not simply an excessive display of extravagance, affects the vox populi, now excluded, expelled. However, this exorbitant exhumation of an extinct vexation stands exhilarated and has sworn to expunge the toxic and noxious cicatrix extolling xenophobia and accepting the exponentially excruciating and extreme execution of complexity." She drew twin broadswords from her belt and sliced an 'X' violently through a poster; the clash of metal against brick sent teardrops of fire flying to the ground. "The only climax is exact and inexorable retribution, an axe swung with heavy expectation, for the crux and exactitude of such shall one day exonerate the excited and exemplary."

She sheathed her swords a little sheepishly—if not for her mask, the woman might see her blush. "Excuse me," she apologized. "This mixture of prolixity turns most extensive. So let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you, and you may call me X."

The woman seemed even more cautious than before. "Are you, like, a…crazy person?"

Under her mask, X smiled. She tried very hard to make sure it reached her voice. "I am quite sure they will say so. But to whom, might I ask, am I speaking?"

(She didn't need to see the careful calculation in the woman's eyes to know she was going to answer.)

"I'm Emily," she finally said.

"Emily?" X tested. "Emily." She surveyed the woman in front of her—petite, unobtrusive to the casual observer. But X was not the casual observer. She could see the fire beneath the requisite navy skirt and white button-down shirt; she could see the mind beneath red hair pulled into an orderly bun. There was a person in there somewhere, and X smiled to herself—she had just found patient zero.

"Tell me, do you like music, Emily?" When Emily hesitated, she continued, leaving no room for a refusal. "You see, I'm a musician of sorts and on my way to give a very special performance."

"What kind of musician?"

X smiled (needlessly, but it was there). "Percussion instruments are my specialty. But tonight, I intend to call upon the entire orchestra for this particular event, and I would be most honored if you could join me."

"I don't think so. I should be getting home." The hesitation was all for show. She liked it.

"I promise you, it'll be like nothing you've ever seen. And afterwards, you'll return home safely."

Emily's head tilted the slightest bit in contemplation. "Alright."

X spun on her heels, cloak swooping gracefully. She let Emily follow.

(Eventually, she planned on following Emily).

/

Emily caught up to her after a few moments of jogging. "Where are we going?"

X clasped her hands behind her back and slowed her pace a hair. "Oh, I shouldn't like to spoil the surprise. But it's nowhere dangerous; I can assure you of that."

"Okay." X watched Emily from the corner of her eye—the smaller girl smoothed her clothes, almost as if she had someone to impress. It was in vain; X already had her pegged. She was important.

"Thank you, for helping me," Emily said softly. Her cheeks, so unlike the painted ones of X's mask, colored with a very real blush. "You didn't have to do that."

"You're very welcome. Though, if I may ask, what were you doing out so late that necessitated help?"

Emily exhaled a sardonic laugh. "Going on a date, actually. Seems like a silly reason for all this trouble."

"I suppose this wasn't the gentlemanly sequence of events you were hoping for, then."

Emily smiled that smile that happens when you trick someone. "No, I suppose not." She coughed, stalling. X could tell that Emily wasn't completely comfortable with silence. "You scared me for a moment back there. I thought you were a True Gentleman—you know, with all the black."

X clenched her jaw at the mere thought. "Oh, I am quite the gentleman, I assure you. But I am no _True_ Gentleman."

"Then why do you wear those clothes?"

"I won't lie; they serve their purpose. Sometimes the mere suggestion of a thing comes in most handy."

Emily furrowed her brows. "So, you wear black so that the True Gentleman think you're one of them?"

"At times, yes. Though I've also heard that black is quite slimming."

(She didn't miss the quick once-over Emily gave to her figure).

"Who are you?" Emily asked incredulously. "I mean, why do you need to trick people? What do you do?" she clarified, no doubt remembering the previous success of that question.

X stopped in front of a doorway. She pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door to an office building. "Take a step through the looking glass, Emily, and see for yourself," she directed, gesturing with a wave for Emily to go in first. Emily shot her a cautious glance but entered the building anyway. "Just up the stairs there."

"How far should I go?" Emily asked, already walking up.

"All the way, if you wouldn't mind." X closed the door quietly behind her, making sure the lock clicked. She checked her watch before following Emily up the stairs. 11:53—right on time.

The breeze was stronger by the time they got onto the roof; X watched Emily's hair dance in the wind. Strands had escaped the tightly-pulled bun, no doubt as a result of the night's scuffle. X supposed she had to thank the True Gentleman for one thing—against the black night, the strings of red were sublime.

"It's beautiful up here," Emily said quietly.

"A more perfect stage could not be asked for," X agreed.

Emily looked around, folding her arms across her chest. Her stance was almost argumentative. "I don't see any instruments."

(Her tone was argumentative, too).

"Your powers of observation continue to serve you well. But wait." She drew a baton from her sleeve and held it with precision, poised perfectly against the sky. All that was missing from her symphony was a conductor. "Tell me, do you know what day it is, Emily?"

"July the 1st," Emily said confidently.

X watched the hands tick on Big Ben, listened to the bells chime midnight. She extended her baton. "Not anymore," she said victoriously. "First, the overture," she said, keeping time to the beat of change. "Yes. Yes, the strings. Listen carefully, can you hear it?" She swished a rubato revolution, jabbed a confident coup d'état. "Now, the brass."

Her baton swirled until hope echoed out of every loudspeaker in London.

"I can hear it!" Emily exclaimed. She rushed to the railing and peered over it excitedly, searching for an explanation. "How do you do that?"

"Wait!" X yelled eagerly. "Here comes the crescendo!" She laughed at the first explosion, positively elated as the Old Bailey crumbled before her eyes. People were streaming out onto the streets in terror and confusion, shock and awe. It was simply the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. "How beautiful, is it not?" She kept laughing, barely aware that Emily was not joining in.

Her baton swirled until hope burst into the night, painting London orange with promise.

Her baton swirled until the music stopped and London's house of crime was little more than a pile of ash.

"What have you _done_?" Emily was horrified. It didn't bother X; she'd come to her sense eventually.

"Now is not the time for questions, Emily," X said in lieu of an answer. "I'm afraid we must depart, and with rather swift steps."

"What…?" X, instead of listening to her protests, shoved Emily lightly toward the door and, after that, down the steps. She kept pushing Emily until they were three blocks away, hidden in a carefully-chosen and perfectly-inconspicuous alley.

"I can't answer your questions tonight, Emily," X said in hushed tones. "I can't even walk you home, regretfully. I quite liked spending time with you."

"You said you'd get me home safe," Emily protested almost petulantly.

"And I intend to," X affirmed. "I just can't walk _with_ you. Please trust, though, that you will encounter no obstacles under my watch. I will protect you until you close your front door."

Emily nodded, but X had already disappeared.

She watched Emily silently, always hanging back in the shadows, behind buildings, under awnings, a physical manifestation of the stillness of midnight.

There was no one after Emily, no straggling True Gentleman.

X walked the whole way home with her anyway.

/

She drew a disposable cell phone from her coat pocket as soon as Emily was safely inside. She dialed a number hastily, dancing nervously on her feet as she waited. It was the first time she'd felt nervous all night.

"It's me," she said quickly to dissuade the person on the other end from hanging up. "I need to know everything about Emily." A troubled pause. "Yes, I do indeed mean that one. I'm curious; when were you planning on telling me about her?" She chuckled lightly. "It doesn't matter. Whatever you know would be most appreciated; this is really for everyone's best interest."

She flipped the phone shut without a parting word.

With a quick turn of her heels, black faded into black. The night was only just beginning.


End file.
